Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way, you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. (Mathew 7:1)
She was a young woman. Quite beautiful except for her now tear-streaked face. Sitting in her chair by the large hearth, wringing her hands in grief and sorrow, screaming hysterically. “That bastard! That rotten, inconsiderate cold-hearted bastard! Leaving me, like this. Where is his compassion, his conscience?”
Her mother looked on with concern and unease, trying to think of something to say to console her distraught daughter. “Well, at least the child will be looked after when born. And he found you another partner to care for you.” After hearing them, her words sounded hollow. Her daughter continued wailing, hoping somehow that it would undo what could never be undone.
……………………
Peace River, Canada 1823
George Simpson, now Governor of the Northern Department of the Hudson’s Bay Company, was bundled up in his toboggan barely visible under the furs. It was a cold, bright sunny day. His dog team, along with two others skimmed over the ice of the Peace River at breakneck speed, towards the little HBC post of Fort Vermilion.
Simpson loved adventure. Especially travel. And to do everything fast. This was almost more exhilarating than taking the freight canoes through the river rapids with those seemingly never-tiring French Canadian voyageurs.
He watched the barking and chorusing sled dogs straining on their harnesses. Occasionally the wolves along the shoreline joined in, creating an eery cacophony of sound up and down the river valley. There was nothing like a good dog team to get you from one place to another in the northern winter. Horses, at this time of year, were useless.
Simpson’s face felt numb from the cold, but he was mostly warm and comfortable in the toboggan. Except for his feet. No matter how many pairs of socks he put on, his feet froze in his leather boots. A rather poor choice of footwear for northern Canada.
The men and the dogs had not eaten properly for three days. Simpson pushed the pace, severely fatiguing everyone in the party. “I hope their fireplaces are hot, so I can thaw out my bloody feet. They feel like blocks of ice,” muttered Simpson to no one in particular.
The new Governor was a brilliant administrator and manager of people. Born in Scotland, in 1786, out of wedlock and raised by an aunt, Simpson was new to the country and the fur trade. To be successful, he was bound and determined to see what he ruled, first-hand.
“Where are we John? I see nothing but endless snow, ice, and trees. Are there animals here, humans?”
His Metis dog team handler, John, was running beside the team, dressed in thin layers of clothing, as if this was a mild spring day. He managed to say a few words and still maintain his pace. “Around the next bend up there and we should see Fort Vermilion, Governor.”
“Jesus, John, how in the hell would you know that? Every new bend looks like the last one we came around.”
John had already answered hundreds of similar questions. Simpson had an incredible sense of curiosity and energy. “That’s my job, Sir, to know every bend of this river, so we don’t end up in the middle of nowhere freezing our asses off and starving to death.”
Simpson’s laughter shot clouds of hot breath into the air that instantly froze. He made a mental note about John, which he would later write down in his employee ‘Character Book’: ‘A good man, simple, hardy and forthright.’ And, Christ could the man run, seemingly for miles with his dogs, never tiring or complaining. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as Simpson.
Simpson noticed there was a bit of friendly competition between the dog team handlers. Proud of their skills, and their dog teams, they pushed one another to the limits of endurance. Suddenly the men stopped their teams just before rounding the bend. They decked out the dogs in fine blankets, and standing irons with bells, ribbons and colored thread attached to them, before heading to the fort.
“Why the name Fort Vermilion, John? I thought this was called LaFleur’s Post.”
“When the Canadians were in charge it was called LaFleur’s post, Sir. But Colin Campbell, the clerk now in charge, renamed it after the red paint that the local Dunne-za make from the local earth and stone. And the vermilion paint we use for the buildings and the trade.”
Finally, the teams rounded the bend of the river. And there in the distance sitting on the edge of the west bank, stood Fort Vermilion, the visible part of its buildings brilliantly lit red in the sunlight. ‘OK. So that’s where it gets it’s name. The red fort!,’ thought Simpson.
“John, why the red paint? That’s a lot of work and waste of money.”
“The Natives like it, Sir. It demonstrates prosperity and prestige. They put high value in it.” Simpson always marveled at the lengths his traders went to impress the Natives. ‘Well now that we control the trade these excesses must stop,’ he thought.
The dog teams pushed the pace even harder as they neared the fort. The Governor put his money on John’s team. His man wasn’t about to lose the race. They had traveled ten days from Fort Chipewyan. Nearly 300 miles. ‘Incredible, just incredible!’ “Faster John, faster…”
…………………………………..
Colin Campbell sat by the fire, awaiting the governor, contemplating his future. As clerk, in charge of Fort Vermilion, he was writing his annual report. His prospects were grim. The fort was in bad repair, the palisades rotting and falling over, and some of the buildings needed to be replaced. While the bright paint covered the blemishes, the place was rotten on the inside.
Campbell was nervous, having trouble focusing on his report. What would the new Governor think of the fort? Or of him? He was a former North West Company man, having served at English River and recently at Fort Dunvegan further upriver. Born in 1787, Campbell was no older than the man who he was about to meet. What he and his colleagues wondered was how Simpson had become Governor, having virtually no experience in the fur trade, or knowledge of the country.
Campbell’s Metis wife Elizabeth, three daughters and his son, were with him. She was in her early thirties, quite striking. Through marriage with Elizabeth (McGillivray), Campbell was well placed in the former North West Company. Promotion was relatively quick. But, now this merger with the British changed things. Marriage and relations in the new Company mattered less. It seemed competence and hard work mattered more.
Elizabeth saw the look on her husband’s face. “You worry too much Colin. You are hard-working, competent and a good leader. These are all things the new Governor admires.”
“Well, I hear things, Elizabeth. The new Governor is tough. Old Company family connections no longer matter. I hear he carries a large book with him with the name of every employee in it, their worth, and what he intends to do with them.”
Elizabeth left him to his writing, shaking her head. But, she too heard rumors of a different kind, that were equally alarming. Especially if you were of Native descent, and a woman. The man already had reputation. While she feigned surprise at her husband’s concern, she realized they had to be careful. The all powerful ‘Emperor of the Plains’, as some people were already calling him, held their future in his hands.
Campbell returned to his journal and continued writing. There was so much to worry about:
“The advantages of this place are very few over any other except it is that ground is Tilled for our Gardens and being a critical place for the Natives to bring in their find.
The disadvantages rise from the exhausted state of the country in Larger Animals which renders it very difficult to procure Fresh meat upon which the people of the establishment have been hitherto chiefly fed.”
There was loud knock on the door. Campbell got up and went to the door, thinking about how much had changed since he had come to the Peace country. What would the new Governor think?
He opened the door and one of his men stood there. “He comes, Sir. We see the dog teams in the distance on the ice. Should we load the muskets and give him a loud welcome?”
“Yes, let’s give Mr. Simpson a hearty northern welcome. Well, as hearty as we can muster without a proper cannon to really shake the valley.”
Simpson saw the people lined up along the bank, looking down at his party. Suddenly the men pointed their muskets in the air and sent off a volume of gun fire whose sounds echoed up and down the valley. There was shouting and laughter as the teams came to a halt beneath the bank. They were warmly greeted by everyone.
“Welcome, Sir. I hope you had a pleasant enough trip, although the journey is long and arduous.” Campbell helped Simpson out of his toboggan. Simpson, and the men with him, looked haggard and hungry. The man could barely walk on those frozen feet of his. The dogs seemed content enough, but they too were suffering from the lack of proper food and rest. A few were a little foot-sore.
“Campbell, good to see you. Is there ever enough food in this country? I’m famished.”
“One of the scourges of this country now, Sir. However, Sir, we have gathered enough food to make sure you and the men will get a proper meal and provisions to get you up the river. The Canadians chose this place wisely. When all else fails, we have enough produce from the gardens, especially potatoes, to survive.”
“Thank you, Campbell.” Simpson’s eyes wandered around the little fort, sizing up the employees. Campbell noticed that he was eying the women as he talked to the men. As soon as they looked his way he turned away. He disregarded them, as if they did not exist. ‘Strange,’ thought Campbell. From what he heard, the Governor had affairs with Native and Mixed-blood women. There were already rumors of illegitimate children.
Across the fort, Landrie’s, Grigoni’s, Piche’s, and Errand’s wives watched as the Governor talked to their husbands.
“Bit of a stuck-up prick, isn’t he,” remarked Isobel, Louis Landrie’s wife. “Can’t even come over here and say hello. What’s his problem anyway?”
“I hear he does not favor Company men taking wives and having them live at the forts. And, he has no use for Native or mixed-blood women, except of course to bed them whenever he pleases. Then he gets rid of them. A real piece of work, that one!” Sarah, Francois Piche’s wife, was a fiery one. Her beauty hid well that fierce temper of hers. Which had once led to throwing her husband off the riverbank because he gotten too drunk.
“We could ignore him and not serve him food or help him,” retorted Isobel. “That would show him the importance of women here.”
“Perhaps,” exclaimed Sarah. “But it might also make him look unfavorably on our men, and that would not be good for their future with the Company. We must be careful not to displease him. I understand he writes down the characteristics of his employees in a large book. To remind him about their abilities and future with the Company.” Not only was Piche’s wife beautiful, but highly astute about their dilemma.
“And look at those boots he wears. At this time of year? I’m sure his feet are frozen solid. That must be extremely uncomfortable if not outright painful.”
“How long is he staying”?
“Not long,” explained Elizabeth, who had just joined the women. “Three or four days at most. Once rested his party will continue upriver to visit the other forts.” Elizabeth too had felt the Governor’s coolness toward her, although he seemed to have little trouble watching her when she was not looking.
“Where is he staying Elizabeth?” Sarah seemed more than a little curious about the new Governor.
“He has a cabin to himself. Just off our cabin and trading room. Sufficient space and a fireplace as well.”
“Perhaps an opportunity will arise where we can pay our regards to the new Governor. Without putting ourselves or our men under his suspicions.”
Elizabeth turned and spoke, a worried look on her face. “Or, better yet perhaps we can show the new Governor how valuable we are to the Company. Let’s sew him a pair of winter moccasins so he doesn’t freeze his feet. If we work together, we should get them done before he leaves.” She looked expectantly at the others, who nodded in agreement.
………………………………
Simpson sat by the fire in his cabin reading Campbell’s annual report. As he read, his thoughts wandered to the fort women, and his latest little tryst with Mary. Well, he’d cleaned that mess up, but it would cost him. The child had to be taken care of. It was worth it. He couldn’t be tied down with a wife and child, so this way was for the best. It was slightly awkward, but no one would dare challenge him.
Simpson returned to Campbell’s report, still thinking about the women he met today. ‘I wonder which one will warm my bed?’ He would ask Campbell about that and put a little pressure on the man. Where was he anyway?
There was knock on Simpson’s door. After a few seconds, without waiting for an answer, in strode Campbell holding two cups and a bottle of brandy. He pulled up a chair by the fire and sat down, eying the report in Simpson’s hand. And also, nervously glancing at Simpson’s open character book on the table.
“Evening Sir. I see you have been reading my annual report.”
“That I have Campbell. A well thought out piece of work, and while I share your concerns, I have some of my own. But that can wait. What have you mind for the coming days?”
Campbell had talked to Elizabeth about Simpson’s stay. They needed to keep his mind on the trade, not the women. Things could get out of hand and some of the women were scared. Except Sarah. She had that gleam in her eye. Like the time she threw her husband off the riverbank. And that also scared the women.
“Well Sir, I thought we would go out to the hunting camp, so you can see the country firsthand and how hard it is for our hunters to acquire game.”
Simpson nodded seeming less than enthusiastic. “Yes, Campbell, a good idea. It gives me first-hand knowledge of the state of the country.”
“And Campbell. Make the necessary repairs to the fort, as you suggest in your report. It looks a little ratty up close despite that paint. Some of these buildings are ready to fall down on your heads.”
“And one last thing Campbell. What about these women running around the fort? Are any of them from the Native bands? Marriage to such women would greatly benefit the trade. The Canadians used that strategy all the time.
“Sir, the Dunne-za do not share their women with us, or with the Canadians before us. They are reluctant to form alliances.”
“Then bribe them with more trade goods. These alliances are integral to our relationships with these people. No wonder they don’t work for us.”
Campbell nervously cleared his throat. “I will do my best, Sir, but I seriously doubt it will work.”
Simpson frowned. “I suppose Campbell but try to keep the costs down as much as possible with the married women at the forts. We can’t have women and children eating up the profits. And, are there any free women at the fort? I could use a ‘little brown’ right now. After all it’s been a long journey, Campbell. Maybe one of the men’s wives is free, if he were at the hunters’ tents? It’s your job, Campbell to look after my needs. Is it not?” As Simpson talked he was casually tapping his fingers on his character book.
Campbell did not miss Simpson’s less than subtle threat. This was what he was afraid of. “It’s late tonight, Sir. Perhaps tomorrow something can be arranged.”
Simpson idly nodded in agreement, but he was not pleased. The little Emperor was flexing his muscles and living up to his name. There was nothing Campbell could do to stop it.
Campbell was shocked by the governor’s words. What he had heard seemed to be true. Simpson considered Native and Mixed-blood women nothing more than alliance makers and bed warmers and treated them accordingly.
Simpson sensed his clerk’s unease but seemed untroubled by it. “Now, one more good shot of brandy and a long pipe of tobacco, Campbell. Then I think it’s time to conclude the business for tonight. If we are to hunt tomorrow I need a good night’s sleep. What say you?”
Campbell said little, visibly relieved that tonight a calamity had been avoided. But what about the next few nights? He sighed, grabbing the bottle of brandy and poured a liberal quantity into their cups. Then he lifted his cup, “To the trade, Sir. May it prosper under your guidance.”
They smoked and drank in silence, each contemplating the other’s words. And each wondering what the next few days would bring.
……………………………………….
It was dawn. The mercury in the fort thermometer had disappeared in the glass bulb. The smoke from the cabin chimneys hung in the morning air, as if frozen in place. The fort’s inhabitants began to stir.
Sarah, assigned to the care of the Governor, was in his quarters, starting the fire in the hearth. His breakfast sat on the table.
Simpson, still in bed, opened one eye and looked around. The other was frozen shut, having teared up during the night. His vision was giving him trouble again. He liked what he saw through his open bedroom door. Even with one eye. She was quite lovely. That Campbell had come through after all. ‘I’ll write a good note about him for this,’ thought Simpson.
Outside Louis Landrie’s wife, Isobel, was just going by Simpson’s cabin to fetch some wood, when she heard the shouting. Then suddenly, a red-faced Sarah came storming out of Simpson’s cabin. Next came Simpson, stepping to the door, half dressed.
“What happened Sarah? You look quite distraught this morning.”
“It’s nothing Isobel. The Governor was not too pleased with his breakfast. I explained, in rather forceful terms, that this was not London, and I couldn’t find any freshly made meat pies.” With that Sarah, hurriedly walked away to her cabin with an unbelieving Isobel worriedly looking after her.
‘A little testy,’ thought Simpson. ‘But they all come around when I threaten them about their husbands’ future with the Company. What does her husband do anyway? Probably just some half-wit French Canadian labourer.’ Then Simpson saw another one of the fort women looking at him, and hurriedly closed the door behind him.
……………………………………………..
While Simpson and Campbell journeyed to the hunting camps with their dog teams, the women met. The chatter was light as they worked on Simpson’s winter moccasins. But Sarah seemed distant and in deep thought. “What’s wrong Sarah?”, asked Elizabeth. “Worrying about your man in the woods. I wouldn’t. He knows what he is doing.”
“That’s not the man I am worried about, Elizabeth.” She told the others about Simpson’s behavior at breakfast. “What am I to do? He is the governor after all. Any ill-intent toward him and I may get Francois into trouble. I’m stuck in a very disagreeable spot.”
The other women continued working, but now with concerned looks on their faces. Elizabeth tried to reassure Sarah. “Well, he’s only here for a few more days, and then we will be rid of him. Hopefully for good. But, in the meantime what do we do? How do we keep him from making more advances on Sarah?”
“I told him I would make his supper tonight. I had too because he threatened to write some nasty things about Francois in that bloody book of his.” Sarah seemed ready to explode.
The other women considered Elizabeth’s question. “Well, I’d like to cut off that all-too eager pecker of his. And feed it to the dogs. Maybe he could have an accident. Fall down the riverbank and hurt himself. You know how dangerous that bank is in the winter. One wrong step and away you go.” Isobel was always the brave and rather brazen one in the group.
“No. We must put him out of commission, but not harm him. Put him in a spot where the last thing he will think about is chasing women.” Elizabeth looked around the group for ideas.
“Maybe we could lace his food with something to make him sick. That would stop him in his tracks. He’d spend most of his time in the outhouse, where he belongs.” Sarah looked expectantly at the group.
Finally Elizabeth spoke up. “No. These men are already weak. The last thing the Governor needs is to be shitting himself for the next few days. He has a long journey ahead of him. I have a better idea. We will give Mr. Simpson a true Fort Vermilion send-off.” She gathered the women around and in a rather hushed voice told them her plan.
……………………………….
Simpson was exhausted. Just back from a day’s hunting with the men. His feet were frozen again. He sat by the fireplace trying to thaw them out. ‘How on earth do they survive in this county? Brutal! Just brutal.’ He now understood better the hardships these people faced.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ thought Simpson, ‘Maybe a little comfort after a hard day’s work.”
Before he could answer in stomped Sarah with his supper. She began to prepare it on the hearth. She said nothing, barely even looking at the Governor.
Simpson asked, “Do you have a name? What do I call you? What is your husband’s name? I understand he is at one of the hunting camps?”
Sarah took her time answering. This was the hard part. Would he check? No, she thought. He has other things on his mind. “Marie, Sir. My husband’s name is Ignace Lavallee, from Lachine, Quebec.”
The Governor nodded. So far so good. He would write that name down in his book. Say something flattering about the man. Supper was ready and they ate mostly in silence.
“Well, let’s have a bit of port then. Perhaps then we can get to know one another better.”
Sarah shuddered. ‘Oh God, help me. I hope he falls for this.’
Suddenly she began to giggle. Seemingly at the Governor. Simpson looked up in surprise. “What is it Marie? Is something wrong? Are you amused by me?”
Sarah became slightly coy. “Nothing Sir. It’s just your teeth…”
Simpson rose slightly embarrassed and fetched a mirror. Yes. There was some food sticking to them and they were a slightly reddish color. ‘Must be the port,’ he thought.
“If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll just freshen up a bit and clean my teeth.” He went into his bedroom.
It was dark in the room and in his haste, the Governor did not light a candle. He knew where everything was that he needed.
Simpson was a fastidious man, in both clothing and personal hygiene. Because of his vast traveling he was exposed to new fashions and methods of keeping one’s self looking the part of the Governor. Well groomed and clean. He had just acquired a few fine new bone toothbrushes, with stout boar’s hair bristles, before he left for his journey.
Simpson searched for his cup of water, his toothbrush and toothpaste, applied the toothpaste to the brush and started to brush his teeth. The paste seemed a little more gritty than usual, but Simpson was tired. And eager to get to know this Marie better. As he brushed he relished what was about to come.
‘There that should be better.’ He took the mirror and looked at his teeth. And there to his horror, a face, with bright red lips and red-stained teeth, stared back at him. His teeth now looked like the walls of the fort.
Simpson cursed and rushed into the main room. It was empty. ‘Marie’ was nowhere be seen. He let out a litany of curses before he sat down and opened his book and began to write a new entry:
Ignace Lavallee: A disagreeable man, drunk most of the time and not fit for the trade. Should not be promoted and dismissed at a convenient time.
Simpson cursed again. That name sounded vaguely familiar. He failed to remember that this ‘Ignace’ was already retired. He looked in the mirror and began to wash his mouth. But the more he rubbed the more the pigment spread. The stuff would not come off.
“Oh damned stain, thou doest not come off….” He swore and rubbed some more but to no avail. Finally giving up he went to his cold bed without a bed partner to keep him warm.
George Simpson, Governor of one of the largest business enterprises on the continent, and one of the most powerful men in North America, had been ‘Ochre’d’!
………………………………….
The next day the Governor stayed in his quarters, feigning sickness and fatigue. His fine bone toothbrush was ruined. He had thrown it into the trash heap, behind his quarters, near the fort gate. He fortunately had packed two others for his trip. He didn’t feel sick or anything. Just embarrassed.
‘That bloody woman. How had she done this’? But, he had no proof and could not confront her. And then all ideas of confrontation completely left him when he saw her husband. The man just returned with a load of meat from the hunting camp,’Marie’ by his side. Effortlessly hefting two enormous quarters of bison onto his broad shoulders and walking to the glaciere to store them. ‘No, best not rile that one up,’ thought Simpson.
……………………………..
The next morning dawned. Again, it was crackling cold, the ice on the great river groaning and snapping. The men and dog teams and were ready to depart, waiting for the Governor. Simpson, dressed and packed, left his quarters, walked out the fort gates and down to the river’s edge. Almost everyone had come out to see him off. He seemed subdued. Not exactly his normal ‘charismatic’ self. A large wool muffler was tightly wrapped around his face, hiding everything but his eyes.
Simpson looked around, as if searching for someone. The so-called ‘Marie’ was nowhere in sight.
Just as he was about to get into his toboggan, Elizabeth, with a few other women approached the Governor. “Sir, I hope your stay at the fort was comfortable and informative. I hope that all your needs were taken care of to your satisfaction.” Simpson thought he saw some of the women smirk a bit at this last comment. He said nothing.
Elizabeth went on. “We noticed on your arrival, that your feet were freezing. To help you in the coming days and weeks we have sewn you a pair of winter boots, so your feet will no longer freeze.”
With those words, Elizabeth handed Simpson a fine pair of knee high, fur-lined leather moccasins, with double-thick soles. They were beautifully decorated with glass beads and delicate colored stitching. But what was most striking about them, was the red pigment that had been worked into the leather. Ochre.
Simpson simply nodded.
Elizabeth spoke again. “Please accept these moccasins as a gift from the women. We like our guests to leave with something that reminds them of Fort Vermilion. What better gift than a touch of ochre, to remind you of this place.” Elizabeth was barely able to hide her laughter.
She watched as Simpson, face covered with his muffler, put on the boots. ‘A touch of ochre indeed, Sir. Which you will be spitting out for a few days,’ thought Elizabeth. Colin Campbell gave his wife a sideways glance but said nothing.
Simpson, although his mouth covered with the muffler, recovered from his surprise and addressed the women. “I will forever remember the women of this fort and the contributions they make to the trade. Especially these red-stained winter boots.” ‘Along with my red-stained mouth.’ With those words, he got into his toboggan, and the teams started up the river, towards Dunvegan. Five days more heavy sledding. But no more cold feet. John and the other dog drivers broke into song as they streaked down the vast frozen river.
Once out of sight of the fort, Simpson smiled but then quickly stifled that smile, remembering the color of his mouth and teeth. He grabbed a handful of snow as they trekked along, putting it in his mouth under his scarf and rinsing. ‘Damn! That was my finest toothbrush too.’ Hopefully, thought Simpson, by the time they reached the next fort the ochre stain would be gone.
And yes. Another fort, another adventure and maybe there he would find a ‘little bit of brown’ to keep him warm. Some habits were just too hard to break for someone of his stature and power.
……………………………………
Fort Dunvegan, Five Days Later
The Governor, tired from the long journey, but now with warm feet thanks to his new moccasins, was sitting at his table in one of the fort quarters. Still thinking about Fort Vermilion and his run-in with that woman, ‘Marie.’ He opened his large character book and was about to write something about Colin Campbell when he noticed an entry of unknown handwriting:
George Simpson: Brilliant administrator, leader, energetic and adventurous. With feet as cold as his heart. Needs to improve his social skills with the opposite sex.
And then, at the very end, a final entry:
Therefore, let us stop passing judgement on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister. (Romans 14:13)
Simpson cursed loudly, ripping out the page and throwing his book on the floor in anger. A curse so loud it was almost heard at the small red fort downriver.
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Endnotes
James Fennimore Cooper (The Last of the Mohicans) wrote that history, “…like love, is so apt to surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness.” The story of Mr. Simpson has two sides. He did great things. He did bad things. Historians and historical fiction writers have written about both.
While this is a story of fiction, it is based on certain facts. George Simpson was an adventurer and brilliant administrator. He led the Hudson’s Bay Company to heights never achieved before. He traveled extensively where he seemed in his best mood. He occasionally suffered from depression and had trouble with his eyes.
He was also a notorious womanizer, having at least five illegitimate children in England and by Indigenous women in Canada. He was cold and indifferent toward Native women, treating them with little respect or regard.
Simpson did have a character book in which he kept a record of the many Company employees under his rule. Their habits, skills, usefulness to the Company and whether they warranted promotion. He did visit Fort Vermilion in 1823, then under the command of Colin Campbell, staying a few days before continuing upriver. He was knighted in 1841 for his involvement in John Franklin’s polar expeditions. He died in 1860 and is buried in Mount Royal Cemetery, Montreal, Canada.
I often wondered about the origins of Fort Vermilion’s name. Did it come from the local ochre the Dunne-za used? Was it the Vermilion paint the Company brought in to trade with them?
Occasionally the traders would put a slip of whitewash or some other color on the mud chinking or logs of fort buildings. The iron content in the local silts and silty-clays, used to make chinking often have a natural reddish hue to them. Below is some chinking from Boyer River Post, just downriver. After being fired it became quite red. The clay chimneys at Fort Vermilion would have eventually turned reddish from the heat, perhaps giving the fort a similar appearance.
Whenever I read Simpson’s journals (and those of other early explorers), it is obvious where the racial intolerance toward Indigenous peoples originated. Simpson was a product of his times. Those in power used race and gender to further their larger socioeconomic agendas. Inequality in the fur trade was often dictated along those lines and in early Canadian society. The taint of those attitudes and perceptions towards others, so deeply embedded in Canadian history, will not be easily removed.